


atlas hands

by mishcollin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:29:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas makes up his mind to stay away from the Winchesters, no matter the cost. This resolve quickly crumbles when Dean goes missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	atlas hands

Cas receives many calls from Dean, at first. He watches each one goes to voicemail and feels vindictively cruel, and something in him feels stuck and wrong, like each missed call is a pebble caught in his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. The texts flood in at first like a deluge-- _Cas man u out there?_ and  _Pls Cas Im beggin here--_ before they peter out completely, save for an occasional,  _Pls check in when u can,_ or  _Come on Cas Sam and me are worried._

Then they stop completely.

Cas doesn't know why that  _aches_ in him, resonates like a drum through him, but it does. It was his choice, he reminds himself, not to reply, but somehow a stifled part of him had been holding out that Dean would keep faith in him, like he always had, even when he'd least deserved it.

Cas moves from place to place, camp to camp, and meets many people, some kind and some not. Humanity is scraping, painful cold breaths in his lungs, sleeping amidst crumpled, damp wrappers next to dumpsters, and tripping and stumbling and aches and unexplained desires that leave him gasping into the crisp night air, alone and unbound and desolate. Cas thinks of Dean in these times, thinks of Dean more times than he would care to admit. He had never missed Dean before, not truly, not like this; not to a fixed point where it grinds deep in his bones like a physical thing, to where every breath feels pained at the absence of him. There weren't thousands of years of song and poetry about the pain of human loss for nothing, he's quickly discovering.

Not that he hadn't felt emotion as an angel. It had just been… _different._ This is so much more, and so much more poignant, and overwhelming and terrifying, solitary and crippling.

He spends the days walking through crowds with his hood up, his head ducked to not draw attention, and fending off fallen angels that stray into his path and recognize him. He spends his nights curled up under his frayed overcoat, hairs prickling on his arms against the cold and imagining with an acrid, tinny taste in his mouth what it would feel like to sleep curled up next to Dean with an unspoken invitation of staying.

The knowledge that that possibility is within grasp, and that he's consciously  _denying_ himself it, somehow whets the pain, but Cas presses on quietly; he drifts in and out states and roads, like a ship out of moor. Days and weeks slip by softly and unobtrusively, and he sleeps in motel rooms when he can afford them, and replays texts and voicemails from Dean over and over in sick mantras in his mind before he sleeps and after he wakes.

He can't go to the Winchesters. Not after what he's done, what more he'll inevitably  _do._ He refuses to bring this conflict to them, not this time. Sam and Dean had fought their way through the apocalypse tooth and nail, survived every hellish form of aftermath without a moment's breath.

When Cas closes his eyes, he sees Leviathan spilling out of him in unctuous black spurts, like ink in the water, and remembers drowning in the reservoir, that last desperate flood of polluted water into his lungs before his sight had gone dark. He remembers thinking, wildly,  _Dean, Dean will save me,_ as if he deserved it.

Cas curls his fingers into his ratty shirt and clutches, breathes slow; somehow this tactic helps him feel like he's keeping everything from pouring out, locked inside his ribs like he's a human cage, and he often falls asleep holding himself, feeling his erratic heartbeat against his arm and wishing it were someone else's.

A full week after Dean stopped texting him, Cas gets another text from Dean's number while he's staying in a rundown motel room in Lincoln, Nebraska.

_Cas? If you're there please respond._

Cas' thumb softly rubs the reply button in contemplation before he snaps the phone shut. He can't, he just can't.

He feels his phone buzz in his pocket again not ten minutes later, and unable to help himself, hating himself, he pulls out the phone. Reads the text once, twice, three times, feeling dread pool into his stomach like ice-water, filling him up, freezing him out.

_Cas, this is Sam. It's about Dean. Please Cas please call me, it's urgent_

Something had happened to Dean?

Cas' whole being seems to resist this thought, his hands starting to shake outside of his control, and before he knows it he's punched the call button and raised the phone, listening to the shrill dial tone rattle in his ears.

Sam picks up on the second ring. "Cas, thank God."

"Has something happened?"

"It's Dean." Cas is quite certain he isn't imagining the soft quaver in Sam's voice, even through the shoddy and crackling connection. "He's missing."

Cas sits down on the motel bed and breathes in deeply four times before he responds. "When did this happen? How?"

"We--" Sam swallows; there are soft rustles as he readjusts the phone, and he starts again. "It's been three days. I've been looking  _everywhere_ for him. I--I just, I can't--"

"Sam, calm down," Cas commands, but it feels strangely like his head is suspended in a tank of gasoline. His voice seems disconnected from his body.

Dean, missing, gone. Those are the only three words his limited human mind can seem to process, and he feels his traitorous human body reacting outside his control; slick palms, fast and shallow breaths, a slight pulse in his vision.

"We were hunting a coven down in Oklahoma City. I ganked the leader but when I looked around for Dean, they'd taken him. I--I don't know where he's--he, he could be…"

"Don't say that," Cas rebukes, his voice sharp and harsh.

"Can you get here? Now? Please, Cas. Where the  _fuck_  have you been, anyway?"

"I've been…traveling."

"Traveling?  _Traveling?_ " Cas almost flinches at the building fury he hears in Sam's voice; this is the first time Sam's been angry with him in a very long time. "Dean's been worried  _sick_ about you and you're  _traveling?_  He's a  _wreck,_ Cas, and you didn't even have the decency to pick up the damn phone? You didn't even bother to--"

"It was to protect you, both of you," Cas argues, although the defense rings hollowly even in his own ears. "I won't bring you another problem, not this time."

Sam's harsh laugh cracks down the line, brittle and incredulous. "Cas, we're dealing with the  _problem_ whether you're here or not, but we'd like you back here if it isn't too much of an  _issue_  for you. Now are you going to help me or not?"

Cas hesitates. Sam hears it.

"This is  _Dean,_ Cas," Sam wheedles, and the anger has fled, replaced with a desperation that grates through the receiver. " _Dean._ Please, Cas, we need you. Isn't that enough?"

Cas had promised himself,  _promised_ himself he wouldn't be involved in the Winchesters' lives. That he wouldn't be around to make messes anymore. But this…Cas thinks of Dean, alone or scared or dead, and feels his shaking hand tighten on the phone.

"Where are you staying?" Cas asks, and he hears Sam's soft, hitched breath of relief before he's given an address.

\---

Sam hugs Cas when he sees him again, but it's stiff and almost clinical. Sam's whole body is a taut line of worry, and it seems to radiate off him in waves as Cas follows Sam into an unfamiliar motel room.

"You've been here all week?" Cas asks, mainly to make conversation.

"Yeah," Sam says, his voice clipped. "I've been trying to get leads on Dean."

"Where was the last place you saw him?" Cas asks, slinging the trenchcoat and the small knapsack of his belongings onto the nearest bed.

"He was taken from a warehouse about five miles away from here. But the coven's long gone. I've been trying to pick up leads on their hunting patterns. I don't think they would kill Dean right off." Sam clears his throat self-consciously and settles down in one of the motel chairs, reaching for his laptop. "Dean and I, we're ah, kinda big names in the hunting world. Especially with vamps. It would be a big deal to them that they caught him. They're probably keeping him like some kind of trophy."

Cas feels a flash of rage pulse through him, and Sam must see his fists knot up because he says, quickly, "I mean, all things considered, that's a good thing. It means there's a good chance he's alive."

Cas relaxes, but not much.

Sam flips open his laptop as he speaks. "But vampires aren't hospitable. They'll brag about Dean for maybe a week before they kill him or--" Sam's throat bobs convulsively, and he seems to collect himself before he finishes, "--or turn him. The latter seems more likely. Just desserts and all of that, a hunter being turned into the thing he hunts."

"We won't let that happen," Cas says firmly, and he feels panic bubbling up inside him. It's odd, getting adjusted to this body, feeling physical sensations vibrate through him like someone's struck a tuning fork against his bones.

Sam's voice is quieter, desperate-sounding, when he murmurs, "I just hope to God we can stop it."

Cas scowls a bit at that. "Don't hope to God." Sam starts in surprise, either at his words or Cas' sudden motion forward to seize Sam's laptop. He fiddles with the mousepad and says, darkly under his breath, "God won't help us on this."

\---

They spend the next two days holed up in their motel room, fending off of coffee and take-out, when one of them has the sense to draw away from poring over laptops and phones. The hopeful moments are strung out, few and far in between, and the whole experience is bleak, quiet, hopeless. Cas sleeps only when Sam coaxes him to, and is up before Sam's even stirred.

"Cas, take it easy," Sam says to him at one point the second day when he sees Cas' fingers tapping a rapid staccato on the tabletop. "You're going to kill yourself."

Cas thinks that it's certainly far from one of the worst things that could happen.

They finally track Dean's potential location to St. Louis, following a pattern of missing person cases and unusual killings up through southern Missouri and east. Cas and Sam are moving before the suggestion has left Sam's mouth, and they pack up their things without a word or glance backwards.

Cas sleeps on the way to St. Louis, shallow and nightmarish naps that leave him twitchy and restless. Sam's eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion and his hands are clamped firmly on the wheel, and he occasionally pinches the inside of his thigh to keep himself awake.

Sam offers to let Cas drive a few times, but Cas always declines, thinking with a strange pang of sadness that Dean hasn't gotten around to teaching him that yet. Maybe never will.

Cas curls up in the seat, presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, and tries to take even breaths.

\---

They track the coven to an abandoned factory in east St. Louis.

"Cas, are you sure you're good to handle this?" Sam asks in concern, handing him a long blade.

Cas tests the weight in his hand and says, almost haughtily, "I was a warrior for thousands of years, Sam--"

"Okay, okay, I get it. Just double-checking."

Truth is, Cas is clumsy as a human. Uncoordinated, graceless in more ways than one. But his angelic training feels like it's etched into his bones, and vengeance is a spiteful fire in his belly, so he's strangely and blessedly assured that he'll make it through this just fine.

"I'll take on most of the vamps," Sam concedes as they approach the back-side of the factory. "Just focus on finding Dean, okay? And get him out of there; he'll want to stay and put up a fight, if I know him, but he'll be too weak. The coven should be sleeping now, given it's daylight, and they won't be expecting an attack. Still, stay on your guard."

Sam and Cas split ways, with Sam taking a more conspicuous path through the front side of the factory and Cas moving around back.

By the time Cas has slipped in through a busted emergency exit around back, he can hear the distant sounds of scuffling echoing throughout the vast expanse of the factory; Sam's hoarse, angry yells and the loud, enraged shrieking of awakened vampires reverberates chillingly, and Cas knows that his time to find Dean is limited.

When he does locate Dean, it's in the heart of the factory. Dean's strung up by his arms in chains in the center of the room, his head bowed. Cas feels a sick pang of fury shake him when he sees the swollen cuts that riddle the undersides of Dean's arms, the tendons of his neck. His relief, however, is euphoria, cloying on his tongue.

Cas almost trips in his haste to get to Dean, and Dean stirs with a soft moan at his approach.

"Take your fill, you bloodsucking son-of-a-bitch," Dean slurs, his head still drooped. "Fuck, take seconds. See if I care."

Cas huffs out a fond, exasperated laugh and places a gentle hand on Dean's face, unable to resist touching, taking. "It's that kind of thing that'll get you killed, you know."

Dean's head snaps up, and something chills Cas to see the dull glaze over his eyes, dimmed with exhaustion and pain. "C-Cas?"

Cas can't help himself; he leans forward, rests his forehead against Dean's and sighs, suddenly uncaring if a vampire were to stroll in and see them. He'd fucking kill them all.

Dean leans into him for a moment, his skin clammy and freezing where it's pressed to Cas', and Cas hears him suck in a shuddering, disbelieving breath, feels the dry air stir between them.

"D-does this mean I'm dead, if you're here?" Dean asks in a weak voice, and Cas draws back and notices how  _pale_ Dean is, his face almost moon-like in the dim gloom of the factory lighting. Dark puffy shadows ring his eyes, and bruises swell on the ridge of his cheekbone and the edge of his jaw.

"You're not dead," Cas says. "Close to it, but not quite."

Dean cracks a feeble but genuine smile. "Goddamnit,  _Cas._ I missed you, you bastard."

Cas doesn't know why he's compelled to do it; he thinks it has something to do with the unstoppered burst of joy in his chest, mingled with relief and affection and  _warmth_ like the center of a small sun, but he slides both hands on either side of Dean's face, fingers curled softly around his ears, and kisses him. Dean's lips are dry as ash, parched with dehydration, and for a moment they're still beneath Cas' before Dean tentatively, paper-light, pushes back, a soft, dry slide against Cas' lower lip before Cas gathers his senses and draws back with a soft, stifled gasp of astonishment.

Dean is gazing at him in sluggish surprise, but there's something tender and curious in his gaze. "What was that for?"

"I--" Cas has no idea what to say. His words sort of choke and he preoccupies himself with hacking at the chains that bind Dean's wrists above his head with the knife Sam had given him, suddenly reminded with gut-clenching force their situation. Sam is out there fighting on his own, and he and Dean could be discovered at any second.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asks hoarsely as if reading his thoughts, seeming a bit unsettled by Cas' lack of answer to his previous question.

"He's fighting the vampires."

Dean shifts, sparking to life. "By  _himself_?"

"He's quite capable."

Dean squirms, hissing in pain as the rough metal chafes against his wrists. Cas notices with sympathy how rubbed raw the skin there is, the surrounding chain links crusted with blood and pus.

"We gotta get out there," Dean says, urgently, "we can't leave him out there--"

"You're too weak, Dean," Cas snaps as the thin, rusted chain-links break under the sharp edge of his knife. "I refuse to let you fight."

"Fuck you, Cas, you can't tell me--" The last chain comes loose, leaving Dean to support his own weight, which he fails at. Magnificently.

Cas helps Dean clamber to his feet, and Dean slumps against him with a soft, pained moan.

"Sam told me to get you out of here," Cas tells him, looping one of Dean's arms around his shoulders. "And that's what I plan on doing."

"But Sam--"

"Will be  _fine._ "

They attempt to walk but Dean gives a strange, wheezing kind of noise and his knees buckle; Cas almost goes down with him, dragged by the heavy weight of Dean's arm on his shoulders as he mutters, " _Fuck._ "

"You've lost a lot of blood," Cas murmurs, smoothing a hand over Dean's slick forehead. "How long have they been feeding from you?"

"Days," Dean says, his voice giving out in the middle of the word.

Cas makes up his mind and slides an arm under the bend of Dean's knees.

"Cas, don't you fucking  _dare--_ " But Cas has already scooped Dean up into an awkward cradle; Cas huffs a bit under the weight, and Dean chokes out a soft hiss of pain as he's jostled in the bracket of Cas' arms.

"Fucking Christ, Cas," Dean grumbles, and a flush of pink tinges his pale skin. "I'm not a freaking chick."

Dean's practically skin and bones--how long has it been since he's eaten, drank anything?--which makes him easier to carry. Cas can still hear Sam's enraged yells and the sick, splicing sound that suggests he's probably winning.

Dean, eyes closed, grins against Cas' collarbone. "Atta boy, Sammy."

By the time they're outside, Dean has passed out, his fingers curled limply in Cas' shirt, and Cas settles him on the grass before he whirls, ready to charge in and help Sam, but halts when he seems a blood-splattered Sam already staggering from the factory's exit.

"Are you alright?" Cas asks in concern, starting to approach, but Sam waves him off and nods.

"Got them all. Where's Dean?"

Cas jerks his head in indication, and he watches Sam's entire frame slacken with relief, the worry-lines chalked into his forehead smoothing out for the first time in days.

Sam heaves a sigh of relief. "Thank God. Cas, can you get him to the car? I've got a few corpses to salt and burn. I'll be right there."

It's an actual struggle to get Dean into the Impala, as he's still unconscious for the entire process of it, but he wakes momentarily when Cas settles him into the backseat.

"Cas," he says, his voice gravelly, and he squints at Cas for a moment painfully before he mutters, "Huh. Thought I imagined you."

"No," Cas says carefully, sliding into the backseat and shutting the door behind him, leaving them in complete silence and swampy, stifling heat.

Nothing is said for several moments, Dean dozing in and out, before Dean asks, so quietly that Cas almost misses it, "Why didn't you answer my calls?"

Cas lowers his eyes guiltily. "I'm sorry, Dean. I thought I was doing the right thing."

"Aw, shut the fuck up, Cas." But there's no heat in his words, only bone-weary tiredness and resignation. "What is it with you and doing the right thing? Why can't you ever just choose Sam and me?" Cas gets the strange feeling that, despite mentioning him, Dean isn't really talking about Sam. Not in the way he's talking about himself. Something about that makes a strange flutter unfurl in Cas' stomach, and Cas clamps a hand over his middle with a disgruntled frown.

"What is it?"

"The strangest sensation..."

"What, you gonna puke?"

"No, it felt soft and…tickly."

Dean processes that for a moment before he asks, incredulously, "You mean butterflies in your stomach?"

"It felt similar to how I would imagine it, yes."

Dean rolls his eyes and wets his cracked, dry lips--lips that Cas had felt, he remembers with a sudden jolt and that strange butterfly feeling again. "I give you butterflies, fantastic. Now are you gonna tell me why you kissed me or are we both gonna pretend that never happened?"

Despite his exhaustion, Dean is side-eyeing him with considerable fixation; Cas finds himself pinned, unable to look away.

"I was hoping we would just forget about it," Cas confesses, finally tearing his gaze away and focusing his attention on the small pyramid of beheaded bodies Sam is amassing in front of the factory.

Dean's voice, quiet as it is, shocks him. "What if I don't want to forget about it?"

Cas turns quickly to meet Dean's eyes; for a moment, neither of them say anything, feeling unspoken words weigh on the building silence.

Cas chooses his words very carefully, feeling each one slot into place between them. "What if, truthfully, I don't want to either?"

Dean takes in a deep, shaky breath. "Okay then."

"Okay."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

Dean sort of sways forward, his eyes half-lidded with weariness, and Cas' heart picks up into double-speed as Dean leans forward, their eyes locked. This close, he can catalog every detail of Dean's face; the mottled bruises purplish under his skin, the swollen cracked fissures on his dry lips, the soft smatters of golden freckles bridged across his nose, the weak bat of his eyelashes, and Cas thinks for a moment that he's in way over his head but that he doesn't quite mind it.

This kiss is tired, weighted, sweet as a summer storm, slow and exploratory, and seems to speak to the thousands of moments that led to its coalescence, scars in alley walls and crypts and soft unfulfilled touches and caresses and the words they never said, never would say to one another except in the hushed recesses of the dark. It seems to say,  _This is Dean, this is Castiel, and fuck, here we are._

To Cas, it feels like a welcome home.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Benjamin Francis Leftwich song.


End file.
